“I’m thinking you got hit too many times in the head last night,” Bo said, gently knocking me in the back of the head and pushing me forward at the same time. “This is Grace. She sent you a care package every month for four years.”
That was the mantra I had held onto since getting out. After reading The Odyssey, I had convinced myself that Grace was Penelope and would wait for me until I had finished my battles and returned home victorious. Why else would she send me that book?
“It’s early yet. Let’s go down to Mick’s,” Bo suggested. Mick’s was a seedy bar on the South Side that was frequented by angry townies. It was a good place to get drunk and get in a fight, something Bo enjoyed doing on an all-too-regular basis.
The transition from Marine to civilian hadn’t been easy for either of us, but Bo seemed to particularly miss the adrenaline rush of always being in danger. While going to a bar populated by guys hopped up on steroids and nursing a hard-on for Central college kids wasn’t exactly the same as being on patrol, it was something.
“You should go put on a polo shirt,” I told him, nodding my acceptance of his offer. The T-shirts we had on weren’t quite the right look to incite the type of antagonism that would rid us both of pent-up frustration.
“Nah, we’ll just hit on one of the girls there, and that should be enough.”
Bo was right. Three beers and five numbers later, we were thrown out of the bar for breaking a bar stool and roughing up some town toughs.
“I shouldn’t have let the last guy land that blow to my face.” I looked in the truck’s rear view mirror. My lip had been cut by a punch to the mouth. No mouth guard meant my inner lip was lacerated too.
“No kissing for you tomorrow,” Bo said, checking out the bruise that was forming under his right eye.
“I’ll tell her that I had to fend off your advances after the movie.”
“You wish.” He turned and grinned at me.
It wasn’t the way that I wanted the night to end, but it was better than sitting in my truck all night behind Grace’s apartment.
Bo blew a kiss to the bartender as we peeled away.
Chapter Seven
Dear Grace,
I didn’t realize it was the anniversary of your father’s death. That had to be hard. My mom died when I was born. I have no memories of her. I guess she was a saint because my father is a jackass. Only a saint could ever spend time with him willingly.
You have to wonder what shitty thing I did in a past life to have my mother die while that mean-ass son of bitch lives. The good really do die young. You certainly see it here all the time. The most rancid, lazy, selfish motherfuckers live through it all, while the guys who care most about their unit step on an IED and die. Sorry for cursing.
We’re always told that when they die, they go to a better place. I hope so for all our sakes.
Yours,
Noah
Grace
Every Sunday I worked a six-hour shift at the library. The library was situated in the middle of campus and was one of the more stately buildings, with its wide-tiered steps framed by large, two-story pillars. Its brick facade looked like it had been standing there for at least a century.
Every student at Central had to work 10 hours a week somewhere on campus. Nearly all the student jobs allowed you to read or study, so I wasn’t sure if this system was designed to create a more egalitarian environment or just force us to study.
During the first hour of my shift, I kept worrying that Noah would show up. I hadn’t called like I had promised because I hadn’t come to any conclusion on what to do. Noah wanted something with me and I wasn’t so stupid to know it was just friendship, but I hadn’t dated anyone before. My feelings for Noah were too strong for a casual relationship, and I had scared him away once before.
Finally too antsy to sit, and hating myself for keeping one eye on the entrance, I asked permission to shelve the returned books. I hadn’t even unpacked my camera tonight. My confusion over Noah was becoming all-consuming, and I liked that least of all.
No one really enjoyed shelving, and I was sent on my way with a grateful glance from the girl working the reference desk.
I stuck my earphones in and maneuvered my cart full of books in and out of the rows of shelves, keeping myself busy until I heard the soft chimes warning that the library was closing shortly.
I’m not sure where Noah had been all day, but he was waiting for me on the porch swing of the Victorian when I got home from the library.
He stood as I walked up.
“Stalking me again?” I asked, unable to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. Inwardly I winced.
“No, stalking would’ve been waiting in the library for the past—” he looked at his watch, “—six hours.”